The World Was Made In Order To

Paint, Not The Thing But The Effect Which It Produces.

Poets Don't Finish Poems, They Abandon Them.

The Flesh Is Sad, Alas, And I Have Read All The Books.

I Have Made A Long Enough Descent Into The Void To Speak With Certainty. There Is Nothing But Beauty--and Beauty Has Only One Perfect Expression, Poetry. All The Rest Is A Lie.

As For Me, Poetry Takes The Place Of Love, Because It Is Enamored Of Itself, And Because This Self-lust Has A Delightful Dying Fall In My Soul.